


wrapped in toilet paper, wrapped in debris

by Byacolate



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Neurodivergent Warden, Oneshot, Physical hurt/comfort, neuroatypical character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:05:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4601013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chivalry isn't dead. At worst it's been knocked around a bit, battered in the dirt with bruised ribs and a gaping head wound, woozy and begging for the sweet release of eternal slumber, but it's not... <i>dead.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	wrapped in toilet paper, wrapped in debris

 

“So maybe it wasn’t the _brightest_ idea to jump in front of a mercenary blade like that.”

 

She’s knelt between his legs, and it’s the cruelest sort of universal joke that he can't even enjoy it. That, it seems, is the price he pays for a sluggishly bleeding head wound and a few bruised ribs. 

 

“Perhaps not the wisest, no,” she murmurs indulgently, shrugging the pack from her shoulders and digging around inside. She pulls an injury kit and a bottle of water from within, pressing the latter into his hands before she opens the former. “But it was very brave. Drink that.” Once he complies, she cups a steadying hand to his jaw and with the other, begins to clean the wound as best she can. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, focused solely on the injury, and he feels as much the bastard he is for even considering the implication of her there, sat between his legs. 

 

“Should’ve brought Wynne along after all,” he jokes, wincing as a bright shot of pain lances through his skull. She pauses, regards his face and does not continue to dab until he gives her an apologetic sort of grin.

 

“We should have,” she agrees. 

 

Her voice is low and quiet as it always seems to be when she is not in the throes of battle, but especially so now. He does not doubt that it is for his benefit, considering the company they keep; Zevran roots through the pockets of the felled mercenaries behind her, and Morrigan prowls the battlefield, her eyes keen with bloodlust for any cowardly stragglers. Alistair is practically _begging_ for merciless scorn by commenting on the intelligence behind his decisions. 

 

 

Not from her, though. Never from her. She’s thoughtful like that. And like this, kneeling in the dirt to tend his wounds while he nurses her water flask.  

 

”Bet you wish you‘d strong-armed Morrigan into learning a healing spell or two,” he ribs, ever hopeful that it might draw that serious expression away. Even a flicker of good humor at the corner of her mouth would do him. 

 

But Duncan did not grant him a particularly jovial companion, nor one who tended to be very adept at playing along. 

 

“I do,” she agrees. Perhaps if she weren’t so focused on the top of his head, she might have seen from his expression that he was only teasing. 

 

”Oh, don’t listen to me,” he scolds playfully, tilting his head closer to her hand. He'd like to think he can be obliging, when he puts his mind to it. ”I’ve probably got mild to severe head trauma. Don’t know what I’m talking about. Just watch, I‘ll forget all about this in a matter of hours. I could say anything right now. Did I ever tell you I was raised by dogs?”

 

She makes soft noise, one he recognizes, and when he glances up through his lashes he finds an encouraging new softness in her eyes and in the gentle upward curve of her mouth. 

 

“You may have mentioned it,” she concedes, “once or twice.”

 

“Ah. Well. Won’t bore you with ancient history, then. Let’s see… what about the time I -”

 

“Are you quite finished cossetting the infant?"  


 

 

Aeducan's hand does not falter. "It will take time, without a healing spell," says she. It's to Alistair's misfortune that she doesn't mean it to chide Morrigan for her ignorance in the healing arts. Alistair picks up her slack by scowling at the witch over her shoulder. Aeducan takes no notice. "His ribs will make it difficult to walk. Our return will be slow."

 

"Though perhaps not as slow as our burden himself," Morrigan sniffs, but she does not linger. 

 

"Probably for the best you didn't ask her to heal me. I think she'd rather rub salt into the wounds."

 

Alistair shifts a little, taking a healing potion when she offers it. He takes a sip and grimaces at the taste before throwing back his head to down it all at once. This is a mistake - his head spins and throbs and he has to close his eyes to tamp down on the nausea. There are a warm pair of hands cradling his head, though, sunk deep within his sweaty, gritty hair, and that... that makes it almost okay.  


 

It hurts to breathe and he's probably going to be sick up and the edges of his vision are fuzzy and white, but honestly, it could be worse.

 

He wakes because, apparently, he lost consciousness - funny how often it happens, that - and the sun is low, but not as low as he. He's been lowered to the ground a stone's throw from a heap of corpses. There's something soft under his back between him and the ground. It doesn't do much at all but add the illusion of comfort to the fact that he's lying on the ground, and hardly even that, but it warms the heart within his bruised ribs all the same. 

 

There's a weight on his thighs that snorts and sighs, and the _fwap-fwap_ of a tail against the iron of his gauntlet.

 

"The others have gone for Wynne," says the lady atop his old stump, broadsword resting in her lap. 

 

"That's why you're the leader," Alistair says. "I'd've just commanded them to carry me back." He tries to muffle the coughs stirring at the dust in his throat and does a poor job of it. Each one wracks his body in painful spasms. 

 

There's a potion at his lips the moment he's finished, and he swallows it greedily. It doesn't slake his thirst or knit his self esteem back together, but a man can pretend. 

 

Her palm is sweaty against his cheek, and he thinks to lean into it before her thumb swipes the corner of his mouth and retreats. A trickle of potion runs down her skin because of course he's drooling like a child. Alistair makes a face. 

 

"Well. That's embarrassing."

 

The mabari whuffs - probably in agreement - but Aeducan doesn't seem to mind. Maybe. Hopefully. It's hard to read her face sometimes, impassive as the stone. But it's not, really. 

 

_She's_ not. 

 

And Alistair feels like a right pillock and an ass for thinking it, so instead he thinks, _Sorry_. "Thank you. Thanks. Um. For patching me up. And for." He flops his hands in a useless but hopefully significant manner. "This? Maker, those two are never going to let me live this down."

 

"You took a blade meant for me."

 

Alistair winces. "Usually people don't just... say those things out loud. Let me suffer in quiet dignity. It's all I have left. And even that's questionable."

 

"Even so." 

 

Her hand's on his face again, but this time it doesn't dab away a drop of drool or sweat or blood. It just... rests there, light and clammy and comforting. 

 

"Even so," he parrots, fingers balling up a little for want of - something. "Even so, I'd probably do it again, so maybe... if you asked Morrigan _very_ politely... sacrificed a virginal goat under the light of the quarter moon and let her bathe in its blood..."

 

"Wynne will teach her what she can of spirit healing," Aeducan tells him, and he absolutely closes his eyes when her blunt nails trace his hairline. 

 

"Oh, it'll be that simple, will it?" 

 

"Yes."

 

Alistair is not so sure, but he isn't going to be the one to tell her so. He's seen her work stranger magic, which is funny because... dwarf? He opens his mouth to tell her so in the hopes of coaxing a smile from her face, and interrupts himself with a wide, jaw-cracking yawn. The warhound makes an inquisitive noise against his thigh, and that's just. Well. He's got a powerful woman palming his freckles and a mabari in his lap and the vibrant colors of sunset above. Aside from the ribs and the possible concussion and lying in the dirt and the whole Blight thing, he's sort of... living the dream, isn't he?  


 

Or is he just lying under the dream? Semantics.

 

"Since I've got no dignity left to spare," he says, smiling up at the big, beautiful sky, "did I ever tell you about the time I walked into the Circle mess hall, starkers? Well, not _entirely_ starkers, but I might as well have been for all the applause..."

 

Someone will come to break this bubble soon enough, be they bandits, werewolves, darkspawn, or Morrigan, but for now... for now she's knelt by his side, and it's the kindest sort of universal boon that he has the time to enjoy it. If the price for this illusion of peace is an uncomfortably pulsing head wound and a few bruised ribs, then Alistair is glad to pay it. 

 

In victory, sacrifice. Something like that.

**Author's Note:**

> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> I'm 100% certain Cullen's Wicked Grace anecdote was about Alistair. I'll fight anyone about it.
> 
> Title from “Your Arms Around Me” by Jens Lekman: _My hand is wrapped in toilet paper and my body is wrapped in debris / You're siting next to me reading the paper / I put your arm around me_
> 
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).


End file.
